All the little boys begin
by feeling the power
of costume and cape
learning man versus
nature-
good guys and bad guys
until one day
the costume
becomes a uniform,
clean lines
disappear and
superheroes
become firemen
capable of brazen acts
of valor.
Before the selflessness,
all the little princes
are pranksters,
putting a single grain of sand
inside the oyster shell,
into the monks shoe,
and these became pearls,
of course
time
refined
things.
Little girl, I was called
Firestarter,
and practiced the title
often on bridges.
I have never seen the Sandman
in my sleep,
but in my wake
I feel the sand
filling me in-
side.
Apropos of the ritual
I chose
to be buried alive
after I say
I do
wish
to be cut by pearls
into innumerable
and indistinguishable
pieces of myself
made up
of ashes and rust
as it must be
my nature.
I must confess,
the arsonist
admired his work
while I wed
the King of Sandcastles
before the tide rushed in.
Photo credit: Galveston Island Sandcastle, Texas, taken July 2011 in Public Domain.
